


I Found

by TheThirdGreywaren (ShelbyDraven)



Category: Daughter of Smoke and Bone - Laini Taylor
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:52:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6522403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShelbyDraven/pseuds/TheThirdGreywaren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a universe where your soulmate's drawings can end up on your skin, Akiva receives a devastating surprise from a young ghost of his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Found

**Author's Note:**

> A short fic for my friend, who requested a soulmate AU where whatever you write on your skin shows up on your soulmate's skin as well. My first DoSaB fic, I hope you enjoy it.

Something impossible shouldn’t be possible.

The laws of the universe and everything within it is laughing in Akiva’s face when he wakes up with multiple colored streaks on his arms. It’s a twist of fortune that Liraz and Hazael have not yet awoken, and Akiva can leave the barracks and get outside before he doubles over. He takes a single second, a single heartbeat before he stands with ill-fitting composure and begins to walk.

The guard rotation has been seared into his mind ever since he was a boy, and evading the silently gliding seraphim is something he has practiced years ago. He had needed the elusive route to escape and see Madrigal.

Now, he needed it so nobody would hear him scream.

Akiva refuses to look down at the marks decorating his skin as he waits for the seraphim patrol to pass. He’s aware of the slight shake in his wings, which he tightly folded against his back to avoid detection, and for a heartbeat, he entertains the idea of simply opening his wings and rushing up into the sky with a mere wing stroke. Escaping the stiflingly familiar base to be with his own thoughts once more. His only company could be the two moons above his head and the memories slowly pulling him under a sea of grief.

Automatically, Akiva glances upwards at the sky. It’s strange to think that the stars and other celestial bodies have not fallen out of the sky at the same time Madrigal fell out of existence.  A flicker of a memory flits past him at the same moment, the warmth of Madrigal’s lean body against his and her low voice describing how her people - the chimaera as an entirety, not just the Kirin - were created through teardrops of a sister moon. In reply,  Akiva had admitted that the seraphim explained the chimaera as warring demons born in darkness and seeking the blood of angels.

Their existence was regretful and monstrous in both the chimaera’s and the seraphim’s version. And of course, Madrigal, his sweet Madrigal, had suggested that they change it into something more desirable. As if tearing apart myths centuries older than the both of them was as simple as that.

Although it eventually didn’t matter; any myths and lives they dreamt of ended when the executioner’s ax swung down.

The memory shocks Akiva back into motion. He has only four seconds until the guard’s patrol brings him back around to where Akiva is taking shelter, but he is fast and silent. The motivation to physically escape his grieving thoughts send him far away from the angelic cage, and by the time the patrolling seraphim circles back around there isn’t a single noticeable trace of the bastard angel that passed through.

* * *

Akiva does not get very far from the seraphim.

Instead, he falls to his hands and knees on the dying grass that surrounded the rocky Adelphas Mountains. He squeezes his eyes shut to fight against the urge to scream; it’s an urge pounding against the protection of his ribcage and constricting his lungs in a death grip, but Akiva listens to his own thundering heartbeat until it evens out with the rate of his breathing.

Finally, he takes a deep, shuddering breath. It makes his whole body tremble with the sheer concentration of it, but it gives him the strength to open his eyes.

Then his heart drops.

In the anxiety episode gripping him, his wings had unfolded, casting his body and the close surrounding area in the gentle firelight. Now that he wasn’t plunged into darkness, he could analyze the newest markings on his skin.

Not a single random line was black like the rings on his fingers; they were all bright, cheerful colors of every kind, from dark red to light blue to warm brown. He also has more than what he glanced at in the barracks, and he watches in a strangled sort of awe as several more lines appear among the others.

They didn’t seem to have a point or a planned pattern. They cross with other colors and curve all the way up to his elbows. It matches perfectly to that of a child’s scribbles, in fact, and Akiva is struck with the revelation in half a heartbeat.

(His life was lived in heartbeats now, every single wretched one bleeding as it beat without its other half.)

With a shaking hand, Akiva gently traces a dark red streak on his forearm. He watches in shocked horror as the marks suddenly begin to fade, from the back of his hands up to his elbows. Every speck of color is soon wiped away, and Akiva frantically rubs his arms, seeking any remaining hint of the decoration, the evidence that he wasn’t hallucinating in the early hours of the morning.

Yet there was nothing. It was if the markings never crisscrossed his flesh. Akiva stayed frozen, watching the clean expanse of his skin desperately.

One heartbeat.

Two.

It was like losing Madrigal all over again. The disbelief, the distrust he had in his own eyes, then the tsunami tide of anger slicing through him like a thousand jagged blades. His heart even screamed for vengeance once again, even though the only traitor in this situation was his sleep-deprived mind.

Defeated, Akiva staggers to his feet and begins the treacherous journey back to where his brother and sister lay, none the wiser to his late night fleeing.

It appears as though nothing has changed, then.

* * *

While a dead angel was walking home, a little girl was being scolded.

Karou whines as Issa snatches away her markers and takes her by the wrist, disappointment etching her beautiful angelic face.

“Sweet girl, what have you done?” Issa titters. She pulls the young girl to her feet, slipping her hand up so she clasps hands together with Karou, instead of gripping her smaller wrist. She always treats Karou like a glass figure, something to be admired and carefully tended to.

“I was coloring,” Karou pouts. She struggled a little, at first, but quickly complies with Issa gentle guiding when the snakes at the waist hiss their discontent. The little girl’s free hand moves up to touch her neck protectively, and Issa laughs.

“It’s molting season, sweet one, don’t get too close.” Karou nods quickly, visibly gulping.

She does not try to squirm away as Issa wets a washcloth and wipes it up and down her arms. The colored lines fade quickly, and Karou watches as the colors momentarily blur together before disappearing altogether.

She’s not sure why it feels as though her heart is being splintered apart, an ache so deep in her bones that it scalds the center of her soul, and she doesn’t say a word about it as Issa leads her back to her cot.

She doesn't want to be bitten by Avigeth during her molt, after all.

* * *

In another world with two weeping moons, Akiva steps into the doorway of the seraphim barracks.

He slides off his shoes and unbuckles the heavier part of his armor, something frowned upon since angels must always be ready for combat, but tonight Akiva’s body is heavy with the weight of a dead soul and he does not care.

He lays down on his bunk, staring at his clean arms the entire time. He waits for four and a half heartbeats, watching. Waiting for some sign that the other half of his soul can communicate with him once more.

When he is met by nothing, he closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep. Another day awaits for him, after all, and tomorrow his sister and brother will distract him with swordplay and talks and pitying looks.

It takes a single heartbeat for Akiva to open his eyes again when the final piece of this mysteriously heart-breaking puzzle emerges:

_ Brimstone. _

* * *

Years ago, in a hidden safehouse between the land of foreign beings and the land of warring angels and demons, Brimstone pulls Issa away from a baby’s crib.

The snakes don’t bother to hiss at him now, but their beady eyes watch him with venomous intents. Issa’s gaze is more understanding. That’s something Brimstone isn’t used to; the last person who looked at him with such attentive eyes was dead now.

“Don’t let her draw on herself,” Brimstone reminds her. Twiga nudges Yasri, and the pair nods in sync with Issa. He doesn’t need to finish the thought because it hangs above all their heads, their own executioner’s ax waiting to drop down on their necks.

_ Don’t let the angel know that she lives. _

 


End file.
